


The Shut Mouth, Underground

by hoist



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Choking, D/s elements, Dry Humping, F/F, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, PWP kind of, Stone Top Widow... I think, Trans Lena "Tracer" Oxton, body horror lite, enthusiastic slutty bottoms are God's beautiful gift to us all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 10:58:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15169238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoist/pseuds/hoist
Summary: She's gotten better at being direct. Kind of.





	The Shut Mouth, Underground

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write dryhumping and overstimulation but it got out of hand… Somewhere in the same pocket universe circumstances as [Abattoir ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14233131)  
> (but with trans tracer).... hand wiggles…. you kno how it is
> 
> I love and appreciate every comment but probably will only respond to direct questions/concerns!! otherwise I feel like a dingus trying to slightly vary every "thank you"

\-- crack-smashing through the boarded up wall of the warehouse, splinters pinging off her eyegear before the two of them crash to the floor and the impact rockets up through Widowmaker’s slab of back and growling chest, leaving her in a grunt --

 

\-- and shimmies right through Tracer as a wheeze, too, rattletrapping up through the accelerator and her own burning lungs, shit’s sake, wasn’t ready for that. Too focused on the weight and heft of the body underneath. The firmness, the cool, the lush. The wineglass jungle cat silhouette she cut on the rooftop, just minutes ago.

 

She’s a bit distracted. Sure. Few months past since their last little field trip, and it’s been a damned good chase tonight. Might be a full moon, too.  You can hardly blame a girl for thinking things.

 

Widowmaker’s quick to recover. She sinks one fist over Tracer’s right shoulder while her heel kicks up into her left hip, creating precious space, and Tracer has to tuck her chin to avoid getting flipped forward onto a cracked neck. The floor slaps the breath right from her chest  and out her mouth like a doctor with a newborn as Widow pours upright -- already moving over and past Tracer, no doubt hunting for Widow’s Kiss --

 

\-- and Tracer fishes with one arm, hooking a beetle-cold shin against her side and rolling to yank Widowmaker to the floor again. Loose boards clatter and something cracks beneath their weight as Tracer scrambles on top, straddling her waist, and the pulse pistol comes up from her hip in a stranglehold and she leans, weight wide, pinning.

 

Widowmaker wraps around Tracer’s wrist and tries to twist the pistol away. And her other hand makes like a starving thing for Tracer’s throat --

 

\-- but her free hand meets it. Barely. Gravity's enough to keep Widowmaker from muscling her over at first, but almost instantly the joints in Tracer’s arm begin to sour (shit, she’s too fucking _strong_ ) --

 

So Tracer drops a wink. And a grin, for good measure.

 

Widowmaker freezes. 

 

They catch their breath for a moment. Pistol leaned out of bounds, hand half-inches from her throat. The balance is just right. It’s the exact amount of push and pull to call a pause.

 

Tracer is already half-stiff in her leggings. She lets the pulse pistol drift farther off as she feels Widowmaker’s eyes find the stretch in the fabric. A laugh puffs out of her lips, a bit sheepish, but she lets her hips and eyebrows wiggle to break the tension. What can she say?

 

“Abrupt maybe. Been a minute for us.” Tracer’s still grinning sideways. Too turned on to be _too_ embarrassed. Her voice softens, coaxes: “Fancy a bit?”

 

They can always keep going otherwise. If they like.  Not as if Tracer’s complaining. They've never taken it in on company time before, but the two of them are at similar points of professional and existential skepticism with their respective agencies. Maybe that's projecting. Tracer can only speak for herself, but she has it on fairly good goddamn authority that Widowmaker-of-late follows given directives to the extent strictly necessary. When she  _does_ follow them.

 

“You aimed for this building,” Widowmaker decides. Her look is inscrutable. Whoops.

 

“Can look up a hotel if you prefer.” She’s still got a grin itching.

 

The woman under her goes quiet. Tracer watches. Widow’s gotten easier to read, mostly -- or Tracer’s just gotten better at it -- but the question of “yes or no” begins to tickle the tip of her mouth when Widowmaker moves.

 

For the third time, the wind leaves Tracer in one effortless heave. There’s a board digging into her back at an awkward angle but it’s no big bother, Tracer likes the position.  Once the lungs are working. But air escapes her -- _again! --_ when Widow hikes one of Tracer’s legs up over her tepid hip and helps herself with zero preamble to a handful of groin.

 

“Christ!” Heat paints along her neck, her cheeks, just before gravity rights itself. A groan curls around in her mouth. “Warn a girl!”

 

It’s the most contact there’s ever been between them. _This_ way, at least -- intimate-like. Like a person touching a person. Not fighting, or strangling, or slicing through suits.

 

Shit. It’s damn near _friendly._

 

Tracer swallows, and it catches. Normally Widow is hands only. Mostly only. Sometimes a knee between her thighs, sometimes bruising teeth in the meat of her shoulder. Now, though. Here. Tracer can feel all the dimensions where Widow outsizes and overpowers her. Her trunk props Lena wide: thighs, full and cool, press against Tracer’s through the lycra; one python arm grips the strap at her shoulder for leverage. And with that Widow’s weight settles neatly against her now aching cock.

 

Tracer gasps and feels herself twitch. Widow feels it, too.

 

She positions Tracer like she’s cleaning the garage. It's matter-of-fact, incidental, one slim calf braced on her shoulder. It stretches Lena wider. Lucky the chase has left her muscles warm. The only change in Widow is a slight pinch to her forehead as she straddles the other thigh. She even _shifts_ a little, there like she’s… like… she’s moving against Lena’s thigh like it’s… like she likes it.

 

It’s. This is very new. _Extremely_ new. And it doesn’t quite process at first.

 

_She's grinding on me._

 

“Gorgeous.” Tracer hiccups. Blinks. Her nerves hum like a strings section, and she’s in terrible danger of babbling. The flesh through the suit is chilly but real as any lover’s, and _moving_ like it, too, and Lena’s body reacts, floods with it.  “Just gorgeous, that -- you -- you’re --”

 

The hand between her legs _squeezes_ with all the loving delicacy of a heart palpitation, and Lena yelps. She takes the hint.

 

There’s a bit more shifting on Widowmaker’s part as she finds the right leverage. Her hand doesn’t leave her groin -- doesn’t leave off playing with it, either -- until she finds the perfect way to slot their hips together.

 

Then: then, Widow: oh,

 

Then she _sighs._

 

Lena shivers at the sound, fullbody, even as the first belly-wringing roll of hips squeezes her from the bottom up: delight pours in, crackling pink, ripcord warm.

 

Oh, good. Oh, wonder. She wasn’t expecting this, really. Not at _all_ like this, really -- and the angle’s strange -- but having a deadly fit woman rutting up against her like this is just fine in Lena’s book. More than fine. It’s the most intimate touch she’s had in a year. Another body, pressed to hers, seeking pleasure.

 

It’s so good. 

 

Widow doesn’t make noise beyond more labored breathing as she continues a slow, syrupy grind. But Lena does. She lets herself whimper, lets herself whine, gasps and moans like a wounded thing on the floor. Her body’s folded almost double with the way Widowmaker’s fixed them both, and each rock of friction into the hungry bruise of her body has Lena yielding into the touch, letting Widow do as she likes, letting her fuck her.

 

It’s so _new --_ they’ve never _done_ it like this before -- Lena strains herself trying to keep her eyes open, trying to get a view. She has never seen Widowmaker in pleasure. Never touched her, never watched her touch herself. She isn’t certain what to look for.

 

When Widow pivots minutely (the new angle bucksaws contact in a _very_ delicious way, so good, lightbursts big enough to cripple) a dangerous thought skitters over the roof of Lena’s mouth.  Has something changed? Have _they_ changed?

 

She swallows. And swallows again, dizzy.

 

Can Lena touch _her_ , now?

 

(Oh, shit. The thought grabs her by the neck and squeezes.)

 

She doesn’t _need_ to. She’d like to. And the curiosity is there, now, and she’s a bit addled. So Lena moves before the impulse can roll off of her and reaches: she strokes a shaky hand along Widow’s thigh, careful.

 

The reaction is immediate. Her wrist creaks like overbaked bread in a crushing grip and searchlight eyes blaze down on her, pinning her to the floor like a bug to cork. Stupid. Pain and stupid, tonguetied regret jockey for first place in her mouth as Lena chuckles, watery. “Alright. Yeah.” She smiles. Kind of. “No worry, darling.”

 

The eyes hold a moment longer. But Widow lets go, and the nerves in Lena’s hand can only clamor for a moment before the two of them are moving -- there on the floor -- and pleasure warms in her again like a filling tub and -- oh, yes -- oh lovely. Touch rolling, pressure building, swivel and turn and press, and really when it comes down to it they’re humping on the floor like dumb shameless teens, but god, Lena loves it.

 

And Widowmaker…. Widowmaker’s… well.

 

Lena licks her lips. Shivers. Watches where they’re joined.

 

“Good?” she whispers, sifting through her face for any sign of delight. Lena’s cock could prop up a goddamn piano lid if not for the lycra. She wonders if Widowmaker is wet underneath hers. “It’s good?”

 

A hand over her throat quiets her. The movement doesn’t stop.

 

But when Widowmaker’s voice rolls along Lena’s synapses like a tabbycat, dandelion-dark of “... it’s good,” Christ alive, all the lights come on. Lena shudders. Fullbody. Her eyes twist closed -- pinned immobile between two pressures of incredible, welcome weight.

 

_She likes it. It’s good._

 

Lena’s brain scrambles:  how to make it better? Does she like her sounds? The way she’s moving? She ups the output of both -- lets spill each gasp like a goddamn bag of marbles, have at it lads, lets her waist twist like a guillotined powerline. Even if she winces at the feel of herself leaking in her knickers.

 

There’s a moment where Widow pulls back. She slides back along Tracer’s thigh (still no wetness, there, or maybe Tracer’s just too sweaty) -- the calf over her shoulder comes down. Tracer’s heart sticks to her ribs in a swirl of sudden worry and relief.  But then the pressure returns and Widow snarls against Tracer’s yelp of pain and delight -- against the surprise, the scream -- and when the rocking takes up again the cold joy in Widowmaker’s eyes is unmistakable.

 

 _Ah,_ Lena thinks, jaw glued around a whimper. _Obvious._

 

Somehow the thought makes it better on her end, too. Even if only because Widow enjoys. It’s -- it’s terribly good. 

 

But it puts Lena entirely too close.

 

“Ease up on us, love.” It comes out raspy. She moves her hands along the floor to try and sit up. “‘m gonna ruin these.”

 

Widow does not ease up. Most definitely not. Instead she laces the fingers of both hands over Tracer’s sticky neck, thumbs squeezing tight over her bloodflow.  She stares down, luminous, judicious, and rolls her hips even harder. Through the suit her thighs are cool and full. Fresh as a workhorse. She could do this for hours.

 

She’d be fucking a goddamn greasestain on the floor, by then, but she seems quite intent upon that.

 

Shit. Tracer whimpers.

 

Candyapple concussion wedges in, all over, around her groin and throat, collared. Coming climax sticks like humidity, pressure building in her head, building-bricking in her belly, and she loses ground with each ounce watercolored against the pressure plate between her legs, Her hands flutter -- they scrabble for something --  and she’s helpless to fend it off and going old newspaper round the edges as she looks up from the swiveling beating (warm, they’re _warm_ but from friction, not body-body, one heat, just one, just lena’s, widow’s none to offer), And under the heat, and slow sever of lightness, lena can heave her eyes up, to catch hangman yellow ones wolf-leering down like she’s the last snack in the pantry.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” she sobs, and shivers, and comes, warm shotgun kickback with runny popping-rock pulses of silversweet in lovely stunning waves that pick her up at the hips and heave, that she grits her teeth against, that she melts into.  Widow keeps moving -- they’re  _worse_ than teens, Christ, rutting on the floor like this -- good but uncomfortable but insanely hot, fuck. She keeps moving with Lena mumbling and useless as laundry underneath. She fucks her, taking, clear through the orgasm, taking, milking every drop.

 

And then some. The lycra goes from delicious friction, to uncomfortable, to raw. Not clean and cleaving like a good open-hand slap but a kind of static, instead, abrading the flesh of her cock and groin like a Venus sunburn, like bad signal.

 

Lena reaches for a sound. To call a stop. She digs, carves, gasps “I” like a hook yanked from the meat of her diaphragm and out of her mouth. Widow keeps moving and she digs for another: “Wuh… ait --”

 

Lena works to get her arms back online to push her away. _Something._ Widow snarls at the contact and pins her hands flat with two blue-black tiltawhirl potshots of pain, and Lena’s now frantic as the contact deepens, darkens, Widow easily wins the muscle match. 

 

 _Stop,_  Lena says, tries, but the word won’t come.

 

Widow’s still moving -- slower but stronger, rumbling with a snarl. Like she’s trying to split Lena up the middle. The contact is _maddening_ in the worst ways, Christ, she’s gonna chafe the fucking thing clear off --

 

“ _Stop!”_ a sob this time, “Stop, I don’t -- it--” petulant, pathetic, who the fuck cares, Lena whips her chin to get her point across, “ -- stop, don’t _like_ it -- stop -- please --”

 

The touch pauses, but doesn’t move away. Lena screws her eyes shut against the dredge of her own breath. Waiting.

 

“Please,” she whispers.

 

The hands around her wrists first relax. Tears want to press out but Lena chokes them back, goddamn you. Another sob frosting the inside of her lungs. Just the one. Then only pants. Catching her breath.

 

Then the touch is gone.

 

“Don’t like it,” she mumbles. 

 

Pathetic. That sounds pathetic. But it works. The weight propping her shifts: the pressure on her shoulders softens, letting her lie flat to the floor, loose boards be damned. She will take it.

 

Lena breathes.

 

Widow’s gone. But close.

 

Lena breathes.

 

Doesn’t want to open her eyes. It’s comforting, the dark. She covers her face with her arms, humiliated. Gutted with it. Catches her breath. Widow lets her. She’s entirely too warm. Her skin is sticky-nasty and her belly is an icecream-swirl of anxious and afterglow. And, ah... the bloom of wet against her navel portends a dark future with an enormous drycleaning bill.

 

Lena laughs, prickly. Breathes. The smile dies. She scrubs a hand through her hair, still burrowed in the other. “Christ.” It’s a mumble.

 

Cool hands come. They trace the outsides of her twitching thighs -- along the hard lines of her abductors. Tensor fascia lata, Lena's learned. Iced it, stretched it. Doctor's orders.

 

Deep breaths. Deep, even breaths. 

 

She imagines being pulled apart. Very gently. From the waistdown. Just like this. Just pieces at a time. Just a touch, starting along her thighs. Unknotting the gluteus medii, from the gluteus max, sifting through the hamstrings like a lyre. The way Widow touches her now is so idle, pure happenstance, like a librarian through bookpages.

 

It’s demeaning. Yes. But nice.

 

The left adductor and quad and delicate bone in between had all been a runny beef stew earlier, courtesy of Widow’s Kiss. Smoothed clean and whole again with a recall. But the memory, and the touch of a trigger finger, has the flesh there ringing. Even the tenderness feels like violence.

 

Tracer takes a final, shuddering breath. And lets her arms fall aside.

 

Widow is watching.

 

(Of course she’s bloody watching.)

 

They level, the both of them.

 

Then Widow’s hands are smoothing along her waist -- unsnapping the holsters on her hips -- thieving past the jacket to find the lip of her pants. Panic and delight leap up in Lena’s heart. No one’s undressed her in… in how long?

 

The leggings are pulled down in seesawing tugs, taking the knickers along for the ride.  Lena swallows hard. She shivers, grimaces against the tackiness. Widow regards her, already half-hard again, and for a moment Lena’s worried she’ll _bite._ Just take a big chomp out of her bits there.

 

(The fear sends a shiver of heat to the root of her.)

 

Then Widow leans, with zero preamble, and swipes her tongue along the head.

 

Tracer’s hands are going to get her killed. They almost _grab Widow by the fucking hair_ but she saves it at the last second -- straightjacketing, arms braided pharaoh-like over the accelerator. She jams a thumb in her mouth and immediately rips off half the nail and that caviar pop of pain is what frames her first glance down at Widow's mouth on her cock.

 

“Oh, Christ. Oh, shit.” Muffled. Blood trickles onto her tongue. A hot stripe of pleasure and anxiety paints her from belly to mouth, like a red carpet leading to a wood chipper. “ _Shit._ ”

 

The touch is careful. Cool coalish tongue: soft and wet, and taking up the runny mess from her shaft, the head’s supple underside. There’s no particular ambition in it.  The chill and the way Widow’s mouth seals and sucks for just a eucharist-wisp of a moment on the flesh here and there and again is peeling Lena in layers, in perilous pleasure, she’s going to die here.

 

The nerves tender as gunpowder make room for the way Widow takes her inside, cock stiffening hot in her tepid mouth. Lena can feel electricity firing down to the soles of her feet, through her eyelids.

 

She makes a sound. It’s shapeless; she just needs to. To make it.

 

If Widow’s making noises, Lena can’t hear over her own. Her hips want to twitch up into the softness of her mouth (and it _is_ soft, it’s beautiful, it’s heavenly, no threat of teeth yet) and maybe Widow senses this: her grip clamps at the top of Lena’s thighs. It’s good enough to bruise.

 

But not to pin her flat, like she expects. Lena gives a little yelp as Widow lifts her til her back bows, and wedges her own lukewarm hips underneath. And they keep moving forward: levering Lena’s hips higher -- shit -- higher than her head -- until the accelerator’s damn near digging into her chin. Her upper back and drunken hands are on the dusty floor, scrabbling for something to balance with but no need. She’s held steady. Widow’s on one knee, hunched forward, left arm snaking like a deadbolt around Lena’s hips while her body props her up. While her right hand strokes that heartbreaking fire back into her belly.

 

Tracer’s leg frames Widow’s face, the other dangling. Her foot twitches midair and Widow's eyes narrow. It almost looks like a smile.

 

Fucking hell.

 

The chill of her hand, and the pain from the frankly _fucked_ position -- it’s nowhere near enough to keep Tracer from leaking all over herself. Beretta-hard again, and _sore,_ but needing -- she squirms, moaning low, and the woman over her sighs.

 

Widow presses further: raises the angle. Tracer’s throat clicks. The pressure on her neck is worrying, but the whirligig pleasure is winning out. Gorgeous tension in her belly, the crib of flesh between her thighs. She lets her. Lets Widow fold her like a goddamn heating element.  She can’t bring herself to push back against the tensing, tender sweetness in the pulls against her, even if she can barely breathe, even if her spine cracks like ice before she can net another finish.

 

“You’re gonna kill me,” she whimpers, muffled, choking, and Widow --

 

\-- Widowmaker _croons,_ she _shivers_ , she _likes_ that --

 

Her belly wrenches with pleasure and heat: Tracer cries out: the crush of climax loving and hot as a candyshop carwreck -- she writhes and maybe her neck _is_ broken, no telling, but she comes all over herself is for sure. Shit.

 

She titters. Even as she melts into the floor. Oh -- Widow's dropped her. Lena blinks. Makes sense and all, harder to hold up a deadweight. Bit rude. Her eyes are closed. Breath  _whooooshes_ out of her loud but it feels very soft, very neat. It's good. 

 

Tracer sighs. Her hands fold behind her head, and she sighs again. Bit chilly. Ought to clean herself up a bit, she's expected back.

 

 

She licks her lips. When she opens her eyes, Widow is still there.

 

Shit.

 

There’s been countless opportunity to kill Tracer tonight alone. But this is the moment that feels most likely. When the carnal hum has rushed off, neither compromised by biology, they are back into the prior dynamic. It’s not a terrible one. The tension is nice. The tenuous rolls in the hay are nice, and they’ve even talked a little as of late. With words! But she usually doesn’t stick around.

 

Tracer feels herself swallow. It catches.

 

Do they? Go back to fighting? Her pistols are meters off. Stupid. God-knows-where. Not like she’s got the coordination to aim worth a damn.

 

Widowmaker is weighing something. Could be trouble. But Lena doesn’t think that. Her posture’s... it's almost  _soft._   She’s halfway to leaning over her when her visor grates.

 

_“Widowmaker.”_

 

The sound slices the room like cell division. Wet and irreversible.

 

_“What is your position?”_

 

“Excellent question,” Lena breathes. It comes unthinking. Widow looks at her and Tracer covers her mouth, giggling. Can’t help it.

 

Widow is silent. She finishes leaning, coming to a half-crouch over Tracer. It wrings the laugh into nothing. A cool thumb traces some of the sticky release left on her neck; the younger woman shivers. The last touch there had been to choke. This time it’s painstaking, foggy, and Lena doesn’t even notice her eyes slipping closed against it until the thumb is pressed against her lips. She opens them unthinking and tastes herself. The salt, part hers, part Widow’s skin. Lena didn’t realize she could sweat.

 

The thumb taps once against her bottom lip as Widowmaker pulls away. “Be good,” she says.

 

It is, absolutely, one of the last things Lena could possibly expect. Mystifying.

 

But she’s already turning from her. She bends at the waist: pulls Widow’s Kiss from some pile of scrap in the corner. And she vanishes from sight before the thick pop and hiss of her grapple, and a rustle of debris, and then nothing.

 

“Wait,” Lena says, quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> (looks at the calendar) oh i guess July 4th is now fuck ya murder gorl and burn the flag day. Semper bi


End file.
